Old Friend, Come By the Fire
by RavenWingDark
Summary: When John, Charles, and Uncle nailed the final board to the house, an old friend comes to visit.


**It hurt viscerally to see Charles, John, and Uncle celebrating Beecher's Hope and to know Arthur would have been there with them. I knew he had to be, and I realized the best way to go about this would be fantasical realism. So here it is. Enjoy.**

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When John, Charles, and Uncle nailed the final board to the house, an old friend came to visit. They had begun celebrating around the fireplace with cheap Guarma rum, reveling in the handsome house.

John heard footsteps and the door opening cleanly. Even through his drink and the dim light, he'd known who it was. Into the circle of firelight came big muddy cowboy boots, worn jeans, and suddenly, the space was taken by his old friend, big and strong, every bit fit for the part he played—enforcer, doubter, protector. The ample space of the family room was dwarfed as the three men looked up at him.

He stopped at the edge of the firelight, pleased but sheepish, dipped his hat in greeting. Misplaced. The three former Van Der Lindes jumped up and ushered him to a chair, pushed a bottle in his hand, slapped his shoulders, and gathered close around.

The drinks flew free but cheer and relief were a stronger substance. Arthur told him it was a real nice place, far from the swampy stinking camp before. _Knew you was a family man,_ he said.

"I still need to get them back," John returned.

 _If God had given Abigail half the sense he gives most women, she would have left long ago. But she didn't._

Charles, deep in his drink, wrapped an arm around Arthur's shoulder and led him around the house, words slurring as he explained his craftsmanship. Uncle told him he don't drink too much no more, 'cept for tonight, special occasion and all.

They lined up shots of fire whiskey, took shots of alcohol instead of buckshot. They enjoyed fresh cooked pheasant while Charles and Arthur argued about their favorite hunt. They settled on an Ambarino bull elk that took a full day to take down.

The lone cowboy gave them a smart grin, said _Quite a place you've made for yourself, Marston, you was born to be a ranch hand._

 _"_ I'm a land owner," John argued with a wave of his pheasant leg, reeking of whiskey.

 _Sure you is, but you're not a rancher til you got some damn cows._ The older man, same age now, nearly, argues.

They all went outside to inspect the spot the barn would be put up and John showed them how he'd reined in the steer at the ranch by lassoing Uncle, who grunted, mooed, and tripped onto his face.

"No, there's an art to it," Charles argued, "you need to flick your wrist more. You've got to outsmart the steer, and know where he'll move." He landed a calculating look at John as best he could in his condition, John readied to move. At the last moment, Charles tossed the lasso throwing it to his left so that it surrounded an unsuspecting Arthur and tightened around him.

A devilish drunk of a smile crept across Arthur's face as he charged, tackling low, then continuing his run with Charles across a shoulder and taking him to the ground with a thump.

They fell on the ground beside each other, laughing and dizzy.

John eventually had to pull them up while Uncle gestured to his back in lieu of putting forth effort.

Arthur was as strong as John remembered him being, before.

When he'd joined Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur, and Arthur and he had taken an instant disliking to each other. But when he'd stolen the wrong satchel and was caught and backed into a corner by three men with knives and Arthur had shown up, sent them packing without drawing his pistol and they'd sat on the nearby fence for a few minutes while John caught his breath and Arthur had dusted off his hat, placed it back on his head as if nothing had happened.

When he'd found him in the snow before Valentine, when he'd saved him from prison, or told him to get out, or up on the mountain—

Those moments when John thought Arthur was unparalleled. Unbreakable.

He'd experienced the life, more or less, that Arthur had wanted for him while Arthur had only known life in the Van Der Linde gang since he was a kid on the streets.

They eventually brushed dirt off their clothes and headed back inside and pulled out a deck of cards that blurred in front of them. No one could remember the rules for any game but five-finger fillet, so they improvised.

Arthur shuffled and asked for stories of their lives—Uncle told him about his terminal lumbago while Arthur nodded grimly. John told him about messing up and slipping into the life again. And again. Becoming a ranch hand, and all that happened thereafter.

"Oh and Sadie's around, more a spitfire and risk taker than ever. A bounty hunter." Charles told him about living with the tribe, and Rains Fall. "Someday I'll take you to where I buried you, Arthur—real nice view over the Ambarino, flowers and grass blossoming where it shouldn't grow. Looking over the sunset, just how you'd like. You're real peaceful there, and I visit when I can."

"Arthur, what's death like?" Uncle asks suddenly, his cheeks ruddier than usual. Arthur distributes cards, wet with whiskey fingerprints. John gets six, Charles seven, and Uncle is stuck with four. Halfway through dealing the cards, Arthur seems to forget what he was doing.

 _Peaceful, I suppose. It's a place where no man shoots another over a horse. Ain't no O'Driscoll's or Van Der Lindes neither. Dying, dying's heavy. It's like blindness, but all over. And then you see 'em. Your family, your dog, your horse. Hosea, Lenny, Sean and every sad fool that left too soon._

"I've been reading your journal," John said later in the night. "All them drawings and all them weird folk. Those brothers feuding over a girl, that photographer, Mason something, that veteran in Valentine, and that widow, Charlotte. She was real grateful to you. My boy, he reads that book you helped write, Gunslinger Ol' Callaway. Funny, I read about them different in your journal. I even wrote in it myself, when inspiration hit me, though I ain't an artist like you."

John opened a back page on the worn paper to show him a drawing of a rabbit, sketched with rash trepidation and a drawing of an old blind man.

Arthur gave him a smirk and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and put it to his lips. John waited patiently as the bigger man took a long drag. _You gonna marry her? I know you got that ring._

"What? Arthur, I don't know. It was yours—"

 _It was Mary's and she gave it up. It'd make me feel better if someone got some damn joy out of the thing._ He pursed his lips, a puff of smoke escaping with his words. _You just hold onto that picture of me and her for me, alright?_

"Sure, Arthur."

 _Thanks, Marston,_ he said, adjusting the hat on his head. The same hat that John was wearing, no more weathered or shot at—John had taken good care of it and worn it scarcely until he'd gotten Beecher's.  
John shifted. "You've got that look in your eye."

 _Oh?_

"That look like you before you'd leave camp for three days and show up with three horses packed full of game."

Arthur smiled, more open a smile than John could remember seeing on him, and put out his cigarette against the railing.

 _I've got to go now, John. And you've got work to do._ Arthur pointed at the bag he'd given John all those years ago.

John felt his chest tighten despite himself and the drinks in his blood. "Be back soon you hear? And bring back plenty for everyone."

Arthur walked down the porch steps and mounted his old black arabian they'd left behind. He gave him a smile, a nod, and dipped his hat toward his brother before trotting away.

"I'll see you in three days!" John found himself shouting after him. The night was dark and empty. The newly built railing vacant of scorch or soot.

John listened to the crickets for a long minute, and the empty air below the gate entrance before turning and heading back into his house with a ghost in his heart.

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I **was really interested in John seeing the gentler side of Arthur more than he did during the story. John must have had to adjust his understanding of his comrade, brother, after seeing the thoughtful, self-doubting parts of him in the journal. I think it helped John come to terms with sharing his own feelings and emulate parts of Arthur he respected.**

 **I have another RDR2 story and I'm thinking about doing more so let me know if you're interested in seeing more.**


End file.
